Wednesday, 19 September 2007

Another one from the St. Cuthbert's Burials archive. This one can also be found in Tell It To A Hound Dog, Pedro. It's pretty well a doublerehash. And to coin a phrase, it's probably good advice if you've got shit for brains;

Brick by brick and trickle of mortar, come who may, the progress is never slow, for imperceptible. It’s not that you’re connected, but the scratching with nails at dusty but solid joinings of wall shows that that at least is not disconnected. Railway dreams are sleepers, the rail is the real goal but is iron not mist. Liner? There’s a thought on board, that’s why it’s swift; no real weight. Say mass. Say a lot of things. Steam speeds you through but what matters is not the journey, but the destination. Drink rum. That’s a journey and a destination in the one happy passage. I may be right, I may be wrong, I’m scared to discover, so I proffer nothing but the odd pithy pith. Learn something from that, dusty child with wrinkles. There are means of protection. If you want to ride, just pretend you have, and wherever you wind up, well, that was your destination all along. Don’t fret about it. Spin a wheel. Roulette/Steering. It matters not, babe. Eat shit, eat chocolate. It fucks your teeth either way, and what do you remember? Delicious sweetness? Bitter filth? No. You remember that you have no viable teeth in their sockets in the skull. Spend everything on a cocaine bath, dissolved in a woman’s utterances and seep. Thrift through baked bean bonanza of your mind’s easiest dream, the ordinary sense of the survival instinct. What do you regret? You spent it all, fucked up? You didn’t take enough time for your pleasure and now it’s too late? No. What you regret is that you wasted your time. Never your money. Money rolls and flows. If you’ve got it, you don’t give a shit. If you don’t got it, you’re resigned to that come reckoning time. In the end, you regret the things you haven’t done. I was a platinum selling hip-hop phenomenon, but I never climbed K2. Fuck it. Like I say… Drink Rum, The Rest Will Come… and then drink rum. You may as well. Thanks.

Wednesday, 12 September 2007

Jesus was sitting on a small lump of cheese rind, occasionally wiping his hands on it. He was a big shiny bastard of a cockroach. They eye blinked behind him and looked suggestive.Jesus glared at it. “Just what the fuck do you think you’re looking at you big retinated anus?” The eye continued to cry and was nailed to the wall. Its mouth ripped open under its iris and it began to reply “Well I must say...”, it vomited up some glutinous wallpaper-paste like paste, then continued, “you are an extremely rude young man.”Jesus jumped off his cheese and ran at the eye and slashed at it with his mandibles.“I’ll fucking show you, you cocky little shit-cake!”He dropped his wing cases to reveal a comparatively large organ of some sort, which pulsed and vibrated all along its length. “Have at ya! HAGH! HAGH!”Jesus ejaculated his invertebrate seed all over the eye, and then licked it as it dripped off. The eye blinked to clear its lens of the sticky concoction, then slowly retreated into a dark tunnel it used as means of passage. “Good fucking riddance” Jesus screamed after it. Jesus crept back onto his cheese with his back to the eye’s tunnel. After about five minutes he glanced over his shoulder to see whether the eye was there; but it wasn't.“Shit.”

Pooka Business

Our principal goal is to be all things to all men. Words. Spittle. Joy above all things. Look, and touch sometimes, all with clean fingers please. Veet for the tongue. Press studs for the abdomen. Gravy for the choir. Banjos for the genitals. Pooka Delaval.

Visions of Delaval(see Pookafield below) is the pictorial side of things. Good stuff.

Hotboxx is a radio show that streams from the heart of the pookasphere, bringing japes aplenty, and fine tunes to boot.

Counter Hive (see Pookafield again) charts the endless undulations over the years of the campaign against the insidious Human Advance (H.A.).